Well, this one’s coming out later than usual today, mainly because of circumstances that aren’t necessarily bad—but they’re fucking troubling. It’s nothing I can’t handle, but the piece I originally wrote got benched. I called an audible, because frankly, I’m the only one reading this blog anyway. It’s for me. So fuck it all—I’m going to revisit something I wrote early on.

 

Dear Jacob,

Two years ago today, your mom, dad, aunts, uncles, cousins, and I hiked up the backside of Discovery Mountain and scattered your ashes with a peaceful overlook of Mount Warren and a view of Philipsburg. The day before, we did the Catholic memorial service. I think it put your mom at some ease. I worried about her and your father then, and I still do.

 

I don’t know why you did what you did. I never will. And finally—about two years in—I’ve given up trying to figure out why the fuck you chose to end it that way.

 

You know, I spent a good chunk of my career in mental health as a nurse and a nurse practitioner. I’ve seen the worst of it—tragedy, addiction, trauma. I understand suicidality. I know suicide is often framed as the most selfish act imaginable—and honestly, given your personality, no matter what the circumstances were, it was always about you. That’s what wore me down. That’s why I wanted to leave you.

 

If I did anything for myself, you made yourself the martyr. If I stayed out too long, you blew up my phone with texts and calls. I knew damn well you sometimes drove by the office just to check if I was really there. God forbid I go out after work—you didn’t want me to have a personal life. You smothered me. And when the pandemic hit and they let you work from home? Well, we both saw how that turned out.

 

Even now, two years later, I’m still getting calls from process servers trying to collect the almost $200,000 in debt you left behind. The one mercy? You had no savings, and I never signed on a single loan. I knew your addiction was bad—but I didn’t know it was that bad.

 

Yeah, I ended up with an addiction too. You knew that ever since we met, one of the only ways I could handle being around someone altered was to alter myself. Years in healthcare will do that. I tried, Jacob. I really fucking tried to help you. I talked to your friends, tried to get them to intervene, and you shoved them away—trashed them behind their backs. You were two-faced in ways that still make me feel sick. You’d be sweet on the phone to coworkers, then turn around and say the most hateful shit about them.

 

You wanted a fight when I tried to bring reality into the picture—your addiction, your behavior. You made up stories. You stole used needles from a Sharps container and scattered them around my shop to make me look like I was the problem. It wasn’t a competition, Jacob. But you sure tried to win it anyway.

 

I knew I had to leave. We were poison to each other. And yeah, I’ve got my own sins. I’m not the innocent one in this story—I’ve had to face my own shit these past two years. But at least I am facing it. All I can do is own it now and try to do better.

 

Shortly after you… let’s just be real—shortly after you shot yourself—Aunt Pat died. I had to fly back to New York and take care of that side of the family. She was a good woman. A good mother, wife, aunt. You never wanted to hear my stories about the Army, but Aunt Pat wrote me every week during basic and tank school. Her letters got me through hell. She and Uncle Tink were proud of me. They were a light when everything else felt like darkness.

 

When I went back in September, I saw Kathy and Stephanie again. You probably didn’t even care enough to know about Kathy’s husband dying. Debbie’s long gone, but Stephanie? She’s still running around and somehow we’re closer than ever. She’s walked the same hard road I’m walking now. She even looks and moves like Debbie—I called her that by accident once. She just looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “That’s about the nicest thing you could call me.” I met her son. Last time you were in Schenectady, he was a baby. He just graduated high school. I can’t remember for sure—my memory’s shit after the strokes.

 

Oh yeah, my mom died in January. So that was the cherry on top of nine straight months of hell.

 

Bright spot? My dad, my sister, and I have finally gotten close. Dad sleeps in the spare room I fixed up—the one we used to call the closet. The house doesn’t look like it used to. It’s mine now. I gutted it, redid everything. All that stuff you didn’t want to replace because it would “cost too much”? Gone. Done. Fixed. With my money. My decisions.

 

You were deep into your addiction by the time we married. I knew it. I should’ve never married you. I should’ve stayed in Butte and let you go to Green River on your own. My whole life could’ve been different.

 

My therapist says there had to be good times. And yeah—there were. But the bad ones? They overshadow it all.

 

Because of your suicide and the fact that I found your body, I had to deal with detectives combing through every inch of my life. Badge access records, phone logs, alibis. The only reason I wasn’t arrested on the spot was because I was running around the entire night managing crises at work.

 

I don’t know what the afterlife is like, and I don’t care. But if there’s a heaven, I know my mom went there. And I hope if she sees you, she finally gets to tell you exactly what she thought.

 

I still feel for your family. Your brothers, their wives, your mom and dad—they didn’t deserve the wreckage you left behind. One of your brothers wrote on the memorial we sent to Burning Man. He regretted that you never met your nephews. They’re great kids. They deserved to know a version of you that wasn’t poisoned.

 

And yes—you did a fucking great job isolating me. Most of the community still avoids me. Looks at me like I’m radioactive. I know that was your goal—to cut me off, make me small. You almost succeeded. But I’ve got one friend left. And you hated him. I love that. He’s done more with his life and his pain than you ever managed. So no, you didn’t win.

 

I feel lighter now. A little. Saying this helped. I’m glad you’re gone. That’s hard to say, but it’s true. You’d have resented my weight-loss surgery, bitched about my choices, my trauma, my disability, my licensing investigation. Hell, you’d probably have shoved me in a nursing home after my strokes.

 

So yeah. I said it. Too much, maybe. But it’s my blog. Not yours. And judging by traffic, no one gives a shit what I write anyway.

 

—Me

 

For anyone still reading: Thank you. I’m not trying to insult anyone—but it’s been hell. If you know me, if you really get me, you understand the fucks and the fury. You understand why I’m writing this.

 

Please—be the person your dog and your mother think you are.